Page 35 of His Pet

AMELIA

Sitting on the sofa in Lorenzo’s living room, I stare at the empty fireplace and sip vegetable broth straight from the carton. I asked the guy who brings me food that I won’t eat to light the fireplace, but he wouldn’t. He won’t even speak to me.

I take another sip of broth and set the carton on the plush carpet. This meager liquid is the only source of nutrition Lorenzo has in here, and I don’t know if he’ll restock it. I know he intentionally left it for me because he got rid of everything else. There’s not even ketchup in the fridge. Just alcohol, bottles of water, and three cartons of this.

A sigh rushes past my lips as I sink into the sofa, my eyes closing and my hand resting on my forehead.

I’m weak. It’s been four days since I’ve eaten solids, and every morning I wonder if today will be the day Lorenzo gives in. Sharp pain pierces my gut every so often, and my greatest escape from it is sleep. Luckily, that seems to be the only thing my body wants to do.

The elevator door chimes and opens, but I don’t bother to open my eyes. I know it’s Lorenzo based on the time. Six thirty. His routine is so precise, I wonder what would happen if someone threw it off.

I don’t want to find out.

I’ve learned a couple things about Lorenzo. The first being that he likes to play. Over the last few days, I’ve made every attempt possible to escape. I’ve tried hitting him over the head with a frying pan when he stepped out of the elevator. I’ve screamed for help off the balcony. I’ve typed in hundreds of combinations on the keypad. He punishes me every time, always with a spanking. His hard-on presses into my stomach, and he laughs at my attempts. It’s sadistic. Cruel. Heartless.

And I keep trying anyway.

The other thing I’ve learned about Lorenzo is there are things he doesnotlike. Lack of order. Disrespect. Staring at his scars. Swearing… or at leastmyswearing.

Everything has a place and a purpose, including me. If anything doesn’t match up to his liking, he gets this look in his eye that would make a grown man want to hide underneath a table. There’s no playfulness or excitement, only viciousness.

ThatLorenzo isn’t interested in ‘playful’ spankings. He leaves with his hands balled into fists, and I’m so terrified of what he’ll do when he comes back that I avoid provoking that side of him. I have no idea where he goes or who’s paying for it.

He steps off the elevator and pauses after walking a few feet. I tense and keep my eyes shut, hoping what I did doesn’t spark something in him.

“What is this?” he asks, his tone even. It doesn’t mean he isn’t angry. It doesn’t mean anything. He shows his emotions when he wants and hides them when he doesn’t.

I roll onto my side and hide my face in the sofa. I can’t do this today. Whether it’s playfulness or anger, I can’t do it. I’m too hungry, too weak. Too cooped up in this penthouse.

His shoes click on the floorboard as he approaches me, and I curl into myself.

“Amelia.”

“What?” I growl, the cushion muffling my voice.

“Look at me.”

I don’t move until the cushion dips with Lorenzo’s weight, and his hand threads through my hair. I’m sitting up before he tugs me toward him. I wince and lift my hands to his even though I know it’s pointless. It’s a reflex.

I open my eyes and beg him without words to let go. For once, to be nice to me. I don’t want to play. I don’t want to fight. I just want to lie here and try to ignore the pain in my stomach.

He glances over his shoulder at the shards of porcelain on the floor from when I threw my plate of chicken at the wall. There’s a grease stain from it that I had the intense urge to lick, and I’ve been disgusted with myself ever since.

“Why did you do that?” He pulls my hair tighter, and I clench my jaw.

I don’t answer, and after closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he lets me go. “Go clean it up,” he says, his eyes still closed.

I get up and find the dustpan in a broom closet and clean up the shards and chicken without a word. I can’t find any fight in me today. Even if I could, this is his angry state. It’s a bad idea to fuck with him right now.

I grab a sponge and scrub the grease from the wall while Lorenzo takes a shower. By the time he’s out, I’m lying on the sofa again, curled into a ball with my eyes closed.

He sits on the opposite end and doesn’t say anything for several minutes, but I can tell he’s staring at me.

“You’re different today.”

I don’t respond, and he scoots closer to me. He runs his fingers up my shin and cups my knee.

“Did something happen?”

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